Holland leaned back in his chair, a puzzled frown on his face. Walker nodded and said rapidly, “Though the opening stanzas of ‘Adonais,’ Shelley’s tribute to his friend and peer, John Keats, are conventionally classical, what with their allusions to the Mother, the Hours, to Urania and so forth, and with their repetitive invocations—the really classical moment does not appear until the final stanzas, which are, in effect, a sublime hymn to the eternal Principle of Beauty. If, for a moment, we may focus our attention upon these famous lines:
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity,
Until Death tramples it to fragments.
“The symbolism implicit in these lines is not clear until we take the lines in their context. 'The One remains,’ Shelley writes a few lines earlier, ‘the many change and pass.’ And we are reminded of Keat’s equally famous lines,
‘Beauty is truth, truth Beauty,’—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
"The principle, then, is Beauty; but beauty is also knowledge. And it is a conception that has its roots ...”
Walker’s voice continued, fluent and sure of itself, the words emerging from his rapidly moving mouth almost as if—Stoner started, and the hope that had begun in him died as abruptly as it had been born. For a moment he felt almost physically ill. He looked down at the table and saw between his arms the image of his face reflected in the high polish of the walnut top. The image was dark, and he could not make out its features; it was as if he saw a ghost glimmering unsubstantially out of a hardness, coming to meet him.
Lomax finished his questioning, and Holland began. It was, Stoner admitted, a masterful performance; unobtrusively, with great charm and good humor, Lomax managed it all. Sometimes, when Holland asked a question, Lomax pretended a good-natured puzzlement and asked for a clarification. At other times, apologizing for his own enthusiasm, he followed up one of Holland’s questions with a speculation of his own, drawing Walker into the discussion, so that it seemed that he was an actual participant. He rephrased questions (always apologetically), changing them so that the original intent was lost in the elucidation. He engaged Walker in what seemed to be elaborately theoretical arguments, although he did most of the talking. And finally, still apologizing, he cut into Holland’s questions with questions of his own that led Walker where he wanted him to go.
During this time Stoner did not speak. He listened to the talk that swirled around him; he gazed at Finch’s face, which had become a heavy mask; he looked at Rutherford, who sat with his eyes closed, his head nodding; and he looked at Holland’s bewilderment, at Walker’s courteous disdain, and at Lomax’s feverish animation. He was waiting to do what he knew he had to do, and he was waiting with a dread and an anger and a sorrow that grew more intense with every minute that passed. He was glad that none of their eyes met his own as he gazed at them.
Finally Holland’s period of questioning was over. As if he somehow participated in the dread that Stoner felt, Finch glanced at his watch and nodded. He did not speak.
Stoner took a deep breath. Still looking at the ghost of his face in the mirrorlike finish of the tabletop, he said expressionlessly, “Mr. Walker, I’m going to ask you a few questions about English literature. They will be simple questions, and they will not require elaborate answers. I shall start early and I shall proceed chronologically, so far as time will allow me. Will you begin by describing to me the principles of Anglo-Saxon versification?”
“Yes, sir,” Walker said. His face was frozen. “To begin with, the Anglo-Saxon poets, existing as they did in the Dark Ages, did not have the advantages of sensibility as did later poets in the English tradition. Indeed, I should say that their poetry was characterized by primitivism. Nevertheless, within this primitivism there is potential, though perhaps hidden to some eyes, there is potential that subtlety of feeling that is to characterize—”
“Mr. Walker,” Stoner said, “I asked for the principles of versification. Can you give them to me?”
“Well, sir,” Walker said, “it is very rough and irregular. The versification, I mean.”
“Is that all you can tell me about it?”
“Mr. Walker,” Lomax said quickly—a little wildly, Stoner thought—”this roughness you speak of—could you account for this, give the—”
“No,” Stoner said firmly, looking at no one. “I want my question answered. Is that all you can tell me about Anglo-Saxon versification?”
“Well, sir,” Walker said; he smiled, and the smile became a nervous giggle. “Frankly, I haven’t had my required course in Anglo-Saxon yet, and I hesitate to discuss such matters without that authority.”
“Very well,” Stoner said. “Let’s skip Anglo-Saxon literature. Can you name for me a medieval drama that had any influence in the development of Renaissance drama?”
Walker nodded. “Of course, all medieval dramas, in their own way, led into the high accomplishment of the Renaissance. It is difficult to realize that out of the barren soil of the Middle Ages the drama of Shakespeare was, only a few years later, to flower and—”
“Mr. Walker, I am asking simple questions. I must insist upon simple answers. I shall make the question even simpler. Name three medieval dramas.”
“Early or late, sir?” He had taken his glasses off and was polishing them furiously.
“Any three, Mr. Walker.”
“There are so many,” Walker said. “It’s difficult to—There’s Everyman ...”
“Can you name any more?”
“No, sir,” Walker said. “I must confess to a weakness in the areas that you—”
“Can you name any other titles—just the titles—of any of the literary works of the Middle Ages?”
Walker’s hands were trembling. “As I have said, sir, I must confess to a weakness in—”
“Then we shall go on to the Renaissance. What genre do you feel most confident of in this period, Mr. Walker?”
“The”—Walker hesitated and despite himself looked supplicatingly at Lomax—”the poem, sir. Or—the drama. The drama, perhaps.”
“The drama then. What is the first blank verse tragedy in English, Mr. Walker?”
“‘The first?” Walker licked his lips. “Scholarship is divided on the question, sir. I should hesitate to—”
“Can you name any drama of significance before Shakespeare?”
“Certainly, sir,” Walker said. “There’s Marlowe—the mighty line—”
“Name some plays of Marlowe.”
With an effort Walker pulled himself together. “There is, of course, the justly famous Dr. Faust. And—and the— The Jew of Malfi.”
“Faustus and The Jew of Malta. Can you name any more?”
“Frankly, sir, those are the only two plays that I have had a chance to reread in the last year or so. So I would prefer not to—”
“All right. Tell me something about The Jew of Malta.”
“Mr. Walker,” Lomax cried out. “If I may broaden the question a bit. If you will—”
“No!” Stoner said grimly, not looking at Lomax. “I want answers to my questions. Mr. Walker?”
Walker said desperately, “Marlowe’s mighty line—”
“Let’s forget about the ‘mighty line,’ “ Stoner said wearily. “What happens in the play?”
“Well,” Walker said a little wildly, “Marlowe is attacking the problem of anti-Semitism as it manifested itself in the early sixteenth century. The sympathy, I might even say, the profound sympathy—”
“Never mind, Mr. Walker. Let’s go on to—”
Lomax shouted, “Let the candidate answer the question! Give him time to answer at least.”
“Very well,” Stoner said mildly. “Do you wish to continue with your answer, Mr. Walker?”
Walker hesitated for a moment. “No, sir,” he said.
Relentlessly Stoner continued his questioning. What had been an anger and outrage that included both
Walker and Lomax became a kind of pity and sick regret that included them too. After a while it seemed to Stoner that he had gone outside himself, and it was as if he heard a voice going on and on, impersonal and deadly.
At last he heard the voice say, “All right, Mr. Walker. Your period of specialization is the nineteenth century. You seem to know little about the literature of earlier centuries; perhaps you will feel more at ease among the Romantic poets.”
He tried not to look at Walker’s face, but he could not prevent his eyes from rising now and then to see the round, staring mask that faced him with a cold, pale malevolence. Walker nodded curtly.
“You are familiar with Lord Byron’s more important poems, are you not?”
“Of course,” Walker said.
“Then would you care to comment upon ‘English Bards and Scottish Reviewers?’”
Walker looked at him suspiciously for a moment. Then he smiled triumphantly. “Ah, sir,” he said and nodded his head vigorously. “I see. Now I see. You’re trying to trick me. Of course. ‘English Bards and Scottish Reviewers’ is not by Byron at all. It is John Keats’s famous reply to the journalists who attempted to smirch his reputation as a poet, after the publication of his first poems. Very good, sir. Very—”
“All right, Mr. Walker,” Stoner said wearily. “I have no more questions.”
For several moments silence lay upon the group. Then Rutherford cleared his throat, shuffled the papers on the table before him, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Walker. If you will step outside for a few moments and wait, the committee will discuss your examination and let you know its decision.”
In the few moments that it took Rutherford to say what he had to say, Walker recomposed himself. He rose and rested his crippled hand upon the tabletop. He smiled at the group almost condescendingly. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “It has been a most rewarding experience.” He limped out of the room and shut the door behind him.
Rutherford sighed. “Well, gentlemen, is there any discussion?”
Another silence came over the room.
Lomax said, “I thought he did quite well on my part of the examination. And he did rather well on Holland’s portion. I must confess that I was somewhat disappointed by the way the latter part of the exam went, but I imagine he was rather tired by that time. He is a good student, but he doesn’t show up as well as he might under pressure.” He flashed an empty, pained smile at Stoner. “And you did press him a bit, Bill. You must admit that. I vote pass.”
Rutherford said, “Mr.—Holland?”
Holland looked from Lomax to Stoner; he was frowning in puzzlement, and his eyes blinked. “But—well, he seemed awfully weak to me. I don’t know exactly how to figure it.” He swallowed uncomfortably. “This is the first orals I’ve sat in on here. I really don’t know what the standards are, but—well, he seemed awfully weak. Let me think about it for a minute.”
Rutherford nodded. “Mr.—Stoner?”
“Fail,” Stoner said. “It’s a clear failure.”
“Oh, come now, Bill,” Lomax cried. “You’re being a bit hard on the boy, aren’t you?”
“No,” Stoner said levelly, his eyes straight before him. “You know I’m not, Holly.”
“What do you mean by that?” Lomax asked; it was as if he were trying to generate feeling in his voice by raising it. “Just what do you mean?”
“Come off it, Holly,” Stoner said tiredly. “The man’s incompetent. There can be no question of that. The questions I asked him were those that should have been asked a fair undergraduate; and he was unable to answer a single one of them satisfactorily. And he’s both lazy and dishonest. In my seminar last semester—”
“Your seminar!” Lomax laughed curtly. “Well, I’ve heard about that. And besides, that’s another matter. The question is, how he did today. And it’s clear”—his eyes narrowed—”it’s clear that he did quite well today until you started in on him.”
“I asked him questions,” Stoner said. “The simplest questions I could imagine. I was prepared to give him every chance.” He paused and said carefully, “You are his thesis adviser, and it is natural that you two should have talked over his thesis subject. So when you questioned him on his thesis he did very well. But when we got beyond that—”
“What do you mean!” Lomax shouted. “Are you suggesting that I—that there was any—”
“I am suggesting nothing, except that in my opinion the candidate did not do an adequate job. I cannot consent to his passing.”
“Look,” Lomax said. His voice had quieted, and he tried to smile. “I can see how I would have a higher opinion of his work than you would. He has been in several of my classes, and—no matter. I’m willing to compromise. Though I think it’s too severe, I’m willing to offer him a conditional pass. That would mean he could review for a couple of semesters, and then he—”
“Well,” Holland said with some relief, “that would seem to be better than giving him a clear pass. I don’t know the man, but it’s obvious that he isn’t ready to—”
“Good,” Lomax said, smiling vigorously at Holland. “Then that’s settled. We’ll—”
“No,” Stoner said. “I must vote for failure.”
“God damn it,” Lomax shouted. “Do you realize what you’re doing, Stoner? Do you realize what you’re doing to the boy?”
“Yes,” Stoner said quietly, “and I’m sorry for him. I am preventing him from getting his degree, and I’m preventing him from teaching in a college or university. Which is precisely what I want to do. For him to be a teacher would be a—disaster.”
Lomax was very still. “That is your final word?” he asked icily.
“Yes,” Stoner said.
Lomax nodded. “Well, let me warn you, Professor Stoner, I do not intend to let the matter drop here. You have made—you have implied certain accusations here today—you have shown a prejudice that—that—”
“Gentlemen, please,” Rutherford said. He looked as if he were going to weep. “Let us keep our perspective. As you know, for the candidate to pass, there must be unanimous consent. Is there no way that we can resolve this difference?”
No one spoke.
Rutherford sighed. “Very well, then, I have no alternative but to declare that—”
“Just a minute.” It was Gordon Finch; during the entire examination he had been so still that the others had nearly forgotten his presence. Now he raised himself a little in his chair and addressed the top of the table in a tired but determined voice. “As acting chairman of the department I am going to make a recommendation. I trust it will be followed. I recommend that we defer the decision until the day after tomorrow. That will give us time to cool off and talk it over.”
“There’s nothing to talk over,” Lomax said hotly. “If Stoner wants to—”
“I have made my recommendation,” Finch said softly, “and it will be followed. Dean Rutherford, I suggest that we inform the candidate of our resolution of this matter.”
They found Walker sitting in perfect ease in the corridor outside the conference room. He held a cigarette negligently in his right hand, and he was looking boredly at the ceiling.
“Mr. Walker,” Lomax called and limped toward him.
Walker stood up; he was several inches taller than Lomax, so that he had to look down at him.
“Mr. Walker, I have been directed to inform you that the committee has been unable to reach agreement concerning your examination; you will be informed the day after tomorrow. But I assure you”—his voice rose—”I assure you that you have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”
Walker stood for a moment looking coolly from one of them to another. “I thank you again, gentlemen, for your consideration.” He caught Stoner’s eye, and the flicker of a smile went across his lips.
Gordon Finch hurried away without speaking to any of them; Stoner, Rutherford, and Holland wandered down the hall together; Lomax remained behind, talking earnestly to Walker.
“Wel
l,” Rutherford said, walking between Stoner and Holland, “it’s an unpleasant business. No matter how you look at it, it’s an unpleasant business.”
“Yes, it is,” Stoner said and turned away from them. He walked down the marble steps, his steps becoming more rapid as he neared the first floor, and went outside. He breathed deeply the smoky fragrance of the afternoon air, and breathed again, as if he were a swimmer emerging from water. Then he walked slowly toward his house.
Early the next afternoon, before he had a chance to get lunch, he received a call from Gordon Finch’s secretary, asking him to come down to the office at once.
Finch was waiting impatiently when Stoner came into the room. He rose and motioned for Stoner to sit in the chair he had drawn beside his desk.
“Is this about the Walker business?” Stoner asked.
“In a way,” Finch replied. “Lomax has asked me for a meeting to try to settle this thing. It’s likely to be unpleasant. I wanted to talk to you for a few minutes alone, before Lomax gets here.” He sat again and for several minutes rocked back and forth in the swivel chair, looking contemplatively at Stoner. He said abruptly, “Lomax is a good man.”
“I know he is,” Stoner said. “In some ways he’s probably the best man in the department.”
As if Stoner had not spoken Finch went on, “He has his problems, but they don’t crop up very often; and when they do he’s usually able to handle them. It’s unfortunate that this business should have come up just now; the timing is awkward as hell. A split in the department right now—” Finch shook his head.
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